but were we burdened, with like the weight of pain
by Captain Harley Quinn
Summary: When Sheriff Stilinski finally reaches the end of his tether with his sons going-on deception, things are said and done and Stiles is alone. But not as alone as he thinks


But were we burdened, with like the weight of pain

When Sheriff Stilinski finally reaches the end of his tether with his sons going-on deception, things are said and done and Stiles is alone. But not as alone as he thinks.

_Warnings: foul language. Sheriff Stilinski is fed up. Peter Hale. OOCness probably. Accidental hitting of a minor_

_Authors Note: Oops, I fic'ed. With Peter Hale...again. I have no idea what this is. Also, I seem to have a fetish for PeterxStiles_

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever, own **_**Teen Wolf**_**. I will never obtain such a thing and any plot or characters that one may recognise from the original author is not mine.**

But were we burdened, with like the weight of pain

It was Thursday, and Stiles was tired; of what he did not know. Perhaps it was how Mr Harris had recently been targeting him, insulting him about his intelligence – or lack of – and aiming hurtful and sometimes even borderline _hateful_ snide comments in front of the entire class, Jackson – though he was now pack – sniggering unkindly from where he sat next to Danny, who Stiles now tried to avoid like it was an Olympic Sport- if it was, Stiles would get a gold – due to always seeing a concerned and somewhat sympathetic look upon his face.

Perhaps it was Scott and Allison, or moreover, more of Scott and the obvious lack of Allison who wasn't allowed ten feet near any members of the pack due to her going Amazonian crazy rage psycho bitch-bitch who almost tried to kill them all.

That didn't stop Scott, of course, who apparently didn't get the memo on that werewolves had amazingly heightened senses and that they could smell Allison all over him. Scott was just a little bit dense in that way.

But perhaps Stiles was just plain tired of everything, tired of trying to make peace between Allison and the pack – because no one else certainly would – tired of listening to Scott mope about Allison, tired of listening to _Allison _mope about _Scott_, loudly, from across the Cafeteria.

Tired of seeing his fathers face, all weathered lines and grim expressions fall even further when his only son lied straight to his face without any apparent remorse. Tired of trying to patch up a relationship between two people who were only drifting further and further apart.

Stiles sighed, shoulders aching as he closed the front door quietly, allowing his heavy school bag to fall to the floor at his feet with a thunk on the wooden flooring.

Closing his eyes, he let himself fall haphazardly against the front door body falling and slumping limply as he massaged his aching temples.

He had just spent a torturous hour in Mr Harris' lab having just sat there with nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs or sit on his hands. I

t was a strange punishment, one that Mr Harris had deemed effective; Stiles' ADHD meant that his already naturally short attention span was even shorter and coupled with his restless nature – boosted even more with his disorder – he needed something in front of him, be it a book in which he could flick through or even just a single pen in which he could just fiddle with.

But Mr Harris, evil as he obviously was, had made him place everything on the desk at the front of the lab, including his phone and told him to sit at the front desk and if he so much as tapped his fingers or even breathed too loudly, he would have another hour of detention, depending on how bad it was. If it was too loud or too annoying, he would have two hours.

"Stiles? Is that you?" His fathers tone was calm but Stiles still flinched at the coolness that veiled in his every word. He resolutely ignored the sharp twang of pain in his stomach at his fathers displeasure.

Letting himself slump once more, Stiles bent down and picked up his school bag, making his way tiredly through the hallway which lead into the kitchen, where his dad was sitting, slumped at the table.

The lack of tan uniform and the usually ever present sheriff badge sent a sharp pang through his chest; seeing his father out of uniform when it was usually all he ever wore made the heavy weight of guilt even heavier in Stiles' stomach.

Placing his bag next to the chair directly opposite his father, Stiles let his aching body fall into the hard-backed dining table chair trying to minimise the contact between hard surface and the various bruises littering his skin; some from this weeks baddies, some from being jolted at school and some from even the pack, accidental as they were.

"Hey dad," Stiles greeted quietly, voice soft and raw and his father frowned, his cool façade breaking for just a moment before his eyes flinched and his shoulders settled, slumping down somewhat.

"Stiles," was all Jonathan Stilinski offered before he lent forward resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers to his knuckles, discomfort obvious in every portion of his body as he observed Stiles on his knuckles.

Stiles' mouth went dry – so very very dry – panic a sharp crystalline feeling in his chest and like ice in his veins as his heart danced to a painful beat on it could hear, almost like a tiny dancer as it fluttered.

"What's wrong? Has anything happened? Oh god, somethings happened and they blame, oh god they think you did something don't they Blood fucking typical, just typical of them-,"

"Stiles," His fathers voice was worn.

Stiles, having just rambled on, came to an abrupt halt breathing heavily in a futile attempt to calm himself, as he stared at Jonathan with huge ember eyes.

"Nothing has happened," Jonathan intoned quietly, voice calm and somehow soothing despite his still cool facial expression and chilled exterior. He did not elborate when Stiles stared at him, expectant.

"D-dad?" Stiles asked, voice soft with confusion. Jonathan did not speak, only letting his eyes drift to the corner of the kitchen which Stiles hadn't bothered to look at when he had stumbled tiredly into the kitchen.

In the previously over looked kitchen corner were bags, two black bags with BHPD written in stark white marker, decorating their sides. They were full.

"D-d-dad?" Stiles questioned again, feeling his mouth before even drier as his hands, flexed as they were in the scrubbed wooden top of the table, become slick with sweat.

His face drained of colour and his eyes, already so wide and huge, became even wider, threatening to become wet.

"A-are you going away?" He asked quietly, voice trembling just this side of noticeable.

Jonathan snorted at his only sons ignorance, breaking his calm façadefor only a single minute before staring at his son again, cool and calm and collected and Stiles couldn't help but shake the feeling that this was it, that they had finally reached the point in their relationship that they couldn't turn back from.

"She would have been so very disappointed," There was no need nor reason to ask who _'she' _was. Stiles, face wretched, froze as those dreaded words passed his fathers lips. "Murder, thieving, stealing, spying, lying! God damn it Stiles, even a restraining order against the god damn Whittmores only son,"

"Me and Jacks are friends now-" Granted, not very good friends but Stiles was part of the pack and Jackson was part of the pack – unfortunately – so that made them pack mates, rather reluctant in Jackson' case, but pack mates all the same. But still, Stiles protested weakly; he knew _exactly _where this was going.

Jonathan slammed a fist into the top of the table, making Stiles flinch and bite his lip, trying to contain his pained whimper. "Damn it Stiles! That's beside the fucking point!" that made Stiles flinched; no matter how angry, or annoyed or scared, Jonathan had never once swore at or in front of his only son even when Amanda had been alive. Suddenly calming, Jonathan leaned backwards into his hard-backed chair, a hand running over his weathered face. "I feel like I don't even know who you are anymore,"

Stiles' eyes, already weet, filled with even more tears despite him trying not to cry, as he hiccuped. "I'm Stiles! I'm your son!"

"You are no son of mine," Jonathan stood, voice breaking as he turned his back on his crumpled son to lean on his shaking hands as he stared out of the kitchen window.

"D-dad?"

"I'm sorry, Genim but I don't even know you anymore,"

Jonathan sighed, voice heavy and raw as he tried to ignore his songs stifled cries. The use of his real first name, the name that his mother had gifted him with, brief as it was made Stiles cry all the more. "You killed your mother and now you're killing me,"

Stiles let out an unmuffled sob, all raw and wounded and so _broken_ as he stumbled to his seat, that it made Jonathan flinch. "Dad, please!"

"No, Genim!" Jonathan refused to turn, even as his sons crumpled figure on the cool tiles of the kitchen floor. "I can't do this anymore," Closing his eyes even as a tear fell, Jonathan sniffed. "You have five minutes to clear out,"

It broke his heart to hear Stiles whimper, pain and confusion high in every note but he was tired and in pain himself, and he was tired. So very very tired.

He was sick of his son lying straight to his face and he knew that if things stayed the same, Jonathan knew ht would do something to Stiles that they would both regret and would fracture – perhaps break their relation completely – their relationship.

It was better this way.

"Dad-" Stiles tried to plea, even as he hauled the BHPD marked bags over his trembling shoulders, his school bag in his equally trembling hand.

Jonathan didn't look at him.

"I am no longer your father,"

Jonathan flinched as a shaking hand landed between his shoulder blades.

"Dad please," Stiles voice was shaky, filled with tears and pain. "Dad-,"

"I am not your father!" Jonathan bellowed, twisting round with his hands in the air as he tried to emphasise his point-

_smack-_

His hand, limp as it was, collided with something heavily. The sound of flesh of flesh was unyielding as it echoed cruelly and loudly around the suddenly silent kitchen.

Shocked and totally disorientated, Jonathan stared even as his hand, bruised and just starting to swell even as Stiles, sprawled on the floor with a hand cupping his cheek and blood slipped upon the floor, slicking it, stared up at his father.

"Stiles-" Jonathan took a step forward only to stumble when Stiles, paled-faced and wide-eyed and _bruised_ – oh god, so bruised and by Jonathan's hand – _whimpered_ and started trying to shift backwards, not even paying attention to the tug and pull of his other various assorted bruises.

John hated the fact that he had been the one to put the fear that shadowed the teens eyes.

Knowing – but hating – that his son wouldn't allow him to help him, Jonathan collapsed back into his seat at the wooden table, head pillowed in his trembling hands.

"Just-just go," Jonathan's voice quivered.

Stiles, heart pounding in his chest, cast his father an unreadable glance before taking an aborted step forward only to pause and freeze when his father reached out a hand to grasp a bottle of whiskey which Stiles hadn't noticed.

Instead of doing his normal habit of grabbing the rapidly emptying bottle and tossing it down the sink, Stiles only collected the bags he had dropped before digging into his jean pocket and withdrawing a set of swaying and well-worn keys.

He paused for a moment, keys hovering just above the table before he gently placed them in front of his father who didn't even look up at him.

But that was the problem wasn't it? Jonathan wasn't his father any longer, and Stiles wasn't his son.

"I'm sorry," Was all he could manage, voice breaking before he turned and walk out of the house; our of his fathers life.

Fumbling for his car keys, Stiles unlocked his Jeep ungracefully before tossing the full bags into the back seat before throwing himself into the front, closing the door with a loud and ringing thud.

Taking a deep breath and resolutely not thinking about what had just happened, Stiles turned the engine on with shakingly numb hands and quickening breaths.

Throwing the Jeep into gear sharply, Stiles paid no mind to where he was going. Why should he? He had to place else to go.

He didn't want to disrupt Scotts and his mothers already fragile and rocky relationship, Lydia would just laugh at him before throwing him out, Jackson would laugh and then tease the hell out of him, he didn't really know Danny all that well and supposed that Dannys parents wouldn't really react well to a strange child – no less the Ex-Sheriffs child – turning up randomly on their doorstep with packed bags and a bruised cheek.

He supposed he could try the rest of the pack, but Erica, Isaac and Boyd obviously viewed him as a dumb human that was weak and worthless and Derek just plain hated him, hated him almost as much as he did Kate Argent snd the burned out husk of the Hale House-

Hold the phone, Derek wasn't the only Hale left now; Peter could help him!

Sure, the dude was a huge massive creeper and had almost molested Stiles with his fangs more then once, but between everything he and Peter had, strangely enough, grew quite close when Stiles had explained to a slightly bemused Peter that _yes_ he did want the bite, but he had refused because at the time Peter had been taking an extra long journey on the crazy train to Cray-Crayville.

Rather than being offended, Peter had merely raised an eyebrow before laughing as Stiles blanched, blushing noticeably, sure he was about to get his throat ripped out.

With teeth

_Human_ teeth, at that.

But even the amusing memory of Peter almost falling out of his seat as he literally howled with laughter couldn't stop the sadness from crashing down over Stiles.

Thankful that he had been taking the automatic route to the Hale House, Stiles didn't even bother pulling over as he abruptly pumped his brakes in the middle of the deserted road, dense forest surrounding him almost like his mothers arms would've when she had been alive.

As his tears fell his shoulders shook heavily, his cries loud and raw and heartbreaking as his head fell with a thwack onto his steering wheel. The horn let out a loud blare.

Heavy cries escaped him, intermingled with the words '_I'm sorry, I'm so sorry_,' even as he smacked his steering wheel with both his fists and his head, the pain of it allowing him to feel something other than overwhelming sadness, his throbbing cheek already beginning to bruise as he sobbed.

He exhausted himself quickly, eyes and mouth dry and itchy and feeling like they were full of cotton and hands bruised and throbbing and red from their self-inflicted damange.

He flinched as he tightened his hands around the wheel, red skin cracking as it stretched tightly.

Taking a deep breath that he could feel in his diaphragm, Stiles once again threw the Jeep into gear, accelerating even as the Jeeps engine stuttered and startled.

He reached the burned out husk of the hale House in almost record time, despite having a few minor incidents in which he almost crashed his Jeep.

Seriously! The trees jumped out in front of him! (At least, that's what Stiles would have everyone believe if asked)

He hadn't bothered to turn around, even though he was unsure whether anyone would be there, he had continued taking his automatic route to the burned out shell, hoping that even that would elevate his loneliness.

The glen where the Hale House was situated was small but airy, devoid of any trees from the treeline which surrounded the house like a forcefield. It was clean and smelt of nature and that old age forest scent that Stiles would never tire of.

He parked his Jeep in his usual space, the grass compacted, a few feet away from the house but close enough that if he had to run, it was in easy distance.

He want under no illusion that he had any privacy if anyone _was_ at the house, but still he sat in his Jeep, taking several deep breaths as his hands curled into fists convulsively, feeling panic well up in his gut like a sort of sickness, loneliness building up in his chest.

Sighing and feeling his eyes burn again at the thought that he now longer had a home, he climbed out of the car. It was when he had let the car door fall shut with a thud that louded loud in the glen did someone appear on the decrepit porch.

Standing tall, proud and unmoving, Peter made no attempt to get Stiles talking as the teen approached him. Rather, he only took one look at Stiles' tear-stained face before letting out a loud sound that sounded like a growl at the very back of his throat before stepping forward and wrapping muscled arms around Stiles, drawing him into a hug.

He did not need to ask about the bruise blossoming upon Stiles' flushed cheek.

Stepping back, Peter placed his hands on Stiles' shoulders before steering him inside the run down house.

He was pushed into an unravenged chair that Stiles was sure Peter or Derek had placed there before a chipped mug of cola was pushed into his hands. When Stiles looked up with an eyebrow raised, Peter shrugged, a half-hearted smile playing at the edge of his lips.

"We'll go to my apartment, but you looked like you needed to sit down,"

Taking a large swig from the white mug, Stiles gave a small, quivering smile over the rin of it to Peter who had settled in opposite him with his own chipped mug of cola.

They didn't talk, not for now at least, despite the fact that Stiles could feel Peters curiosity in the air despite being human and that Peter could scent Stiles' pain and hurt and everything in the air since Peter had first noticed him.

They only talked when Stiles became restless, fiddling with his cup and with the edge of a thread on his red hoodie, and even then it was small talk, stilted and menial and impersonal as they both nursed their mugs of cola.

It was on his second mug did Stiles first began too talk, a mug of soda clasped tightly in his hands that his knuckles turned white, and his voice was soft and stilted as he curled into Peters embrace, the natural warmth of a werewolves body chasing way the chills that had pervaded his body.

"I-I've been c-chucked out," Was all he really offered before turning his head inwards to the elders chest, in an attempt to stifle both his whimpers and sobbing cries.

"Sh, sh,"Peter soothed quietly, running his hand through Stiles' sort hair. "You're alright, now, I won't let anything happen to you,"

It provided a small measure of comfort but Stiles couldn't help the pang in his stomach; that had been the promise his father had whispered to him when they had both been crying, watching Stiles' mother flatline even as the doctors tried to bring her back. But both of them had broken that promise and Stiles knew he would never get a chance to fulfil it again. There was just too much damage.

Resting hs head on Peters chest, Stiles felt his tears fall silently as he began to realize the gravity of his currant situation.

He had no money, no home, no father and no other relatives. He was well and truly alone.

"I don't know what to do, Peter," Stiles admitted shyly, voice cloying and worn ragged with tears, his quiet words abnormally loud in the abrupt silence of the room. "He's kicked me out and my Jeep is far too uncomfortable for me to sleep in, I don't have any money and I can guarantee that non of the pack will put up with me-"

"Shut up," Peter said, voice harsh but his body remained wrapped around Stiles' comfortingly. "You should stop putting yourself down because you are much more worthy than the entire pack who are nothing but angst-ridden teenagers. I do wish Derek had chosen people who had the ability to vote rather than drink when they can't even get drunk," Peter shook his head, patting Stiles' head as the teen looked up at him weirdly.

"You can stay in my apartment," Peters voice was firm and Stiles pretended not to notice as it broke. But it broke no argument, Stiles lifted his head and stared at the werewolf, wide-eyed.

"A-Are you sure?" Stile stuttered, heart pounding and stomach flipping. Peter didn't respond, he only lifted a hand to catch Stiles own and raised it to his face where he kissed the delicate skin of the humans wrist. Stiles blushed. "Th-thank you,"

"There is no need to thank me,"

Stiles shook his head, gratitude lightening his scent even as he yawned, stuttering his own apology as he buried his head deeper into Peters torso and letting the calmly beating heart lull him into a light doze.

Peter resolutely ignored the peculiar feeling in his chest even as he tightened his arms around the human.


End file.
